


Sleeping it Off

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Sickfic, weird families bonding weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: In which Tim is sick, and Dick is bad at helping.





	Sleeping it Off

It had been more than two days since Dick had heard from Tim.   
Normally he wouldn’t worry, only his little brother wasn’t picking up his phones (Dick had tried all three), and he hadn’t been on patrol in two nights.   
  
Armed with his key and his winning smile, Dick decided to go to Tim’s apartment to see firsthand why Tim wasn’t answering his calls.   
  
After hacking Tim’s security (because it’s apparently been long enough since he was last here that all the locks have changed), Dick lets himself in, calls out, “Timmy? Handsome, it’s just me.”   
  
Tim’s favourite pair of shoes are at the door, his wallet and keys on the kitchen bench. Dick throws his jacket on the couch, kicks his shoes off beside the coffee table, and grins. He’s always taken a perverse pleasure in messing up his neat-freak little brother’s space. (His own fault, really. If he didn’t react so much, Dick wouldn’t do it any more.)  
On reflection, he thinks. That’s maybe why Tim doesn’t call him. And why the locks have changed.   
  
 _…nah._  
  
“Tim? You here?”   
  
When Dick opens Tim’s bedroom door, the room is sweltering hot. The window is unlatched, the covers on the bed are lumped together in a mound, and the Red Robin uniform is balled up in the corner. Dick feels something in his chest stutter in panic. This is not his Tim.   
  
Dick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, trying to think. He got home safely from patrol the last night Dick had seen him. The uniform was here. Even if Tim had left, for some reason without his wallet and keys, Dick knows his brother well enough to know Tim wouldn't–  _couldn't–_  leave his room in this state.   
  
Then he hears – a faint rasp, an even fainter rustle of sheets. He scrambles to the bedside, catches sight of a single pale hand poking out beneath the mound of covers, and “ _Oh_ , Tim.” The lump doesn’t stir.   
  
Dick crouches down, gently shakes the covers where he thinks Tim’s shoulder may be situated. There is a faint groan, and Tim’s hand slides back under the covers, hiding him completely. Dick laughs, a mix of relief and affection, before he wrestles with the blankets, eventually freeing a good half of Tim, who is curled tight on his side.   
  
His cheeks are flushed scarlet, hair sweat-curled and pressed to skin. There’s a faint crease between his brows that speaks of pain, and his breath is an unsteady rasp from his open mouth. He’s clad in a worn, fitted singlet and a pair of briefs that Dick recognises as the underclothes to his uniform. So  _how long has he been here?_  
  
Tim, stirring now at the removal of his blanket, squints up at Dick blearily. His eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed. “Wh–?”  
  
“You look like shit, Timbo,” is the first thing Dick says, and the younger man frowns.  
  
“Screw off,” he croaks, upset, tries to roll over. “I’m sleeping, why would you jus'– nngh–” He seems genuinely confused as to why Dick would wake him up apparently just to insult him.   
  
“No,  _no_ – Timmy, I– you’re really sick. Come here.” Dick presses a hand to Tim’s forehead, burning to the touch, and stops his feeble struggles by putting a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Nuh-uh,” Tim protests vehemently, his eyes screwed shut tight. “Jus’ tired, lemme sleep. Go ‘way.” He tugs the covers out of Dick’s slackened grasp, pulls them back tightly over his head.  
  
“I’m not gonna leave, little brother. You need  _medicine_ , have you even taken something for the fever?”  
  
Tim swats Dick’s hand away, buries his face in the pillow. “I’m _sleeping_ , why… s'early.”  
  
“Tim,” Dick says worriedly. “Buddy, it’s nearly two in the afternoon.”   
  
That, at least, gets Tim’s attention, and he struggles to sit up, frowning and bewildered. “I… slept all day?”  
  
Dick shifts slightly, settles himself on the bed to help support Tim’s weight. “Times two,” Dick says, a bit apologetic. “I think. Um, maybe more.”  
  
Tim struggles weakly against Dick’s arm, and he looks  _lost._  “T-two days? No, I was t-tired, felt a bit funny. I was gonna sleep it off.”  
  
“Admirable try, Timmy,” Dick says gently. “But maybe now it’s time to try something different.” He frowns, tightens his grip on Tim. “When was the last time you ate?”  
  
“Nngh… um, yesterday?”  
  
“Two days ago yesterday, or actually yesterday?”  
  
Tim gives up his struggle and collapses against Dick’s side, pressing his face into the man’s shoulder. “Oh god, I don't– my head hurts, why– why’d you ask me that?”  
  
“Shh, shh, okay, it’s okay,” Dick soothes. “Just relax, huh?” He shifts Tim gently to lean against the headboard, covers him with a blanket again. “Stay here. I’ll just be a minute.” He returns with a glass of filtered water and a straw, which he places in Tim’s hands. “Drink some for me, okay? As much as you can.”   
  
Tim tries to protest, but the look Dick gives him silences it. Then Dick dials Bruce. “Hey, Bruce? Um, I’m at Tim’s now. Can you tell Alfie I’m bringing him over? He’s really sick. Yep. No, naturally occurring. 98% sure–? God, I don’t know, B, he’s sick, okay. Yeah, can you just tell Alfred? Yeah, not… great.” There is a long pause, while Dick glances at Tim, eyes closed and sagging limply against the bed. “Yeah. We’ll see you soon. Thanks.”   
  
Dick jams the phone back into his pocket, leans over and pulls the half-full glass from Tim’s precarious grip, startling him into awareness again. It takes him a few long minutes to find Tim some clothes–  
  
(“Geez, Timbo, everything’s so fancy. Where’re your sweats?”  
  
“T-the hamper, I didn't–  _oh god, the laundry_ , what am I– I can't–”  
  
“ _Priorities_ , Tim. It’s going to be okay.”)  
  
–and then a few minutes longer to coax him into a standing position. He manages to dress himself while Dick hovers anxiously, but he completes the combo by selecting one of the lighter-weight blankets from the bed and draping it around Tim’s shoulders. Then, because he’s a wonderful person, Dick kicks the Red Robin uniform into the closet, latches and deadlocks the window, vaguely straightens the covers (mostly to be sure no one else is hiding there), and, lastly, snags Tim’s laptop.   
  
“Here goes, handsome. You ready?”  
  
Tim, sitting blankly at the end of the bed where Dick had set him down and put on his shoes, frowns. “Wh– but what for?”  
  
“We’re gonna go see Alfred and Dad.”   
  
“Bruce–? N-no, but I don’t feel well.”  
  
“I know, Timmy,” Dick pulls him to his feet, directs him to the door. “We’re going to make sure you get taken care of.”   
  
Tim protests feebly the whole way down to the carpark, Dick ignoring his mumbles about “kidnapping” up until one of Tim’s neighbours gives them a shocked look. “I’m his brother,” Dick explains cheerfully, pulling Tim closer against his side. “I’m taking him to a doctor, so it’s all– why am I explaining this to you…? I just, you know. Nothing illegal.” The woman stares at them a moment longer before hurrying away, still looking scandalised.  
  
“Smooth,” Tim mumbles, against him, and Dick laughs, unlocking the car.   
  
“Shut up, you. This is your fault anyway.”   
  
Tim goes to sleep almost as soon as Dick has belted him in (and thank god he didn’t bring the bike), and dozes fitfully the whole trip. He doesn’t really even stir until they pull up in front of the manor, but that doesn’t stop Dick murmuring soothing things and fussing with the blanket the whole way over.  
  
Within 15 minutes of getting Tim out of the car and across the threshold of the manor, he’s freshly showered, medicated, and in clean pyjamas, sitting on the edge of the bed.   
  
“Alfie… you can use the speedforce, right? It’s okay, you can tell me.”  
  
“Nothing more than pureness of heart, Master Richard,” says Alfred primly. Then he frowns slightly. “Master Bruce wishes to run some preliminary tests to rule out an… artificial infection.”  
  
Dick’s eyebrows furrow. “He still thinks it happened on patrol? Well I’m so glad he asked for my opinion just to disregard it.”   
  
“We can’t risk it, Dick.”  
  
Dick doesn’t jump. He doesn’t flinch. And he doesn’t turn. “Hello, Bruce.”   
  
“How’s our boy doing?”  
  
“About how he looks.”  
  
Bruce grunts, brushes past Dick and Alfred in the doorway. “Tim,” he says, in greeting. Tim doesn’t respond, startles when Bruce lays a hand on his shoulder. Bruce shushes his embarrassed, stuttered apologies and sits beside him on the bed. He checks his glands for swelling while Dick sits on Tim’s other side. “So you don’t remember getting sprayed, injected or otherwise exposed to any peculiar substances on your last patrol, Tim?”  
  
“No,” Tim says, who seems to be making a serious effort not to slur his speech. “Nothing.”  
  
“I’m going to take a blood sample just to be on the safe side, okay, Tim?” Bruce is already sliding on a glove, and Dick is murmuring, “What a surprise.”. He swabs the crook of Tim’s elbow with an alcohol wipe and positions the needle.  
  
Dick slips his arms around Tim, pressing Tim’s head into his shoulder. “Relax,” he says, as Bruce slides the needle in. Tim makes a sound of pain, and Dick tightens his arms reflexively. “Just another minute,” he soothes.  
  
“No, 's… nngh– windpipe–”   
  
Dick, on realising he was inadvertently crushing his little brother’s airway, pulls back, horrified. “Sorry, Timmy,” he says, while Bruce carefully packs away the medical equipment and bandaids Tim’s elbow.   
  
“Alright, Tim,” Bruce stands, squeezing Tim’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just sleep for now?”  
  
Tim’s eyelids are already drooping. “ 'kay,” he mumbles. Dick pulls back the covers and Bruce eases Tim down onto the pillows.   
  
“Someone will be up to check on you shortly,” Bruce rumbles, and gives Dick a pointed look. Taking the hint, he heads for the door too, trailing behind Bruce and Alfred.  
  
 "Sleep well, little brother,“ he says, and Tim mumbles something from beneath the blankets. He stands there for another minute until Alfred pulls him into the hall and shuts the door behind him.   
  
–  
  
Dick creeps into the room. He edges around the bed, the only light coming from a single crack in the dark curtains. It takes a moment for Dick’s eyes to adjust.   
  
Tim’s face is pressed into his pillow, and he’s still frowning slightly, even in his sleep.  
  
Dick crouches at the edge of the bed, brushes some of Tim’s hair off his forehead. "Hey Timbo,” he says. Tim doesn’t stir. “Little brother?” Experimentally, Dick flicks on the lamp beside the bed. He doesn’t even twitch. Dick sighs, then, and prods Tim’s shoulder, says, “Tim!”  
  
Tim’s eyes fly open and he’s up like a shot, colliding loudly with the headboard. He lets out a hoarse yelp and grabs his undoubtedly throbbing head, eyes bleary and still wide with panic.   
  
“Tim, Timmy, relax, okay?!” Dick hisses, pressing his hands onto his little brother’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, everything’s fine.”   
  
He still looks bewildered, rubbing faintly at the top of his head. His right arm, supporting his weight, is beginning to tremble from strain. “D-Dick? What–?”  
  
“I just came in to talk for a sec,” Dick says apologetically, guilt twisting his gut. “Lay back down, would you? I really didn’t mean to startle you.”  
  
Tim obligingly slides back down to the pillows, but his eyebrows are furrowed, eyelids heavy. The question is unspoken.   
  
Dick rubs his shoulder for a minute. “I’m really am sorry,” he sighs. He gives a half-smile. “I just thought you’d like to know that your blood-test looks normal, so whatever got you sick was naturally occurring.”  
  
“ 'kay,” Tim says, closing his eyes. “Thanks, Dick.”  
  
“It also doesn’t look like you’re contagious any more, which I guess is good news.” He brushes a hand through Tim’s hair, very gently. “I can keep you company for a while if you want? I’ll even, ah, promise to do my best to make sure you don’t hit your head on anything.” His smile twists, a bit self-mocking and a lot regretful.   
  
“Mm,” Tim mumbles, turning his face a bit. “Sounds nice… but c'I sleep a bit more firs’?”   
  
Tim’s door opens before Dick can respond.  
  
Damian stands in the doorway. “ _Tt_ , and I thought Pennyworth exaggerated when he said Drake was 'bedridden’. Pathetic.” His scowl becomes a smirk. “It stands to reason. He can’t fight criminals, and he can’t fight illness.”  
  
Dick rises from his crouch and folds his arms, frowning. “Damian, why did you come here if you’re just gonna be nasty?”  
  
“Asked and answered, Grayson.” Damian sneers, but gives in. “Pennyworth requested I bring up these–” Dick catches the bottle of pills easily, “–and have Drake take two. I trust you can handle it from here.”   
  
“Thanks, D,” Dick says, winces as Damian slams the door on his way out. He tries a smile looking back at Tim. “Whattaya say, Timmy? Ready for some more pills?”  
  
Tim whimpers into the covers.  
  
–  
  
It’s a few hours before Dick enters Tim’s room again. The dark haired teen is dozing, curled in the middle of the rumpled sheets, the blanket kicked down to his feet. He’s breathing hard, panting, his brow furrowed. He's…  _pouting._  
  
Dick feels the smile growing on his face. His little brother is seriously adorable (even though Tim would die before he’d admit it). Dick settles comfortably on the bed beside him, smiling wider when he starts to wake.   
  
“Latcho dives, Timbo,” he greets. “How’re you feeling?”  
  
Tim rolls onto his back to look up at Dick, but doesn’t answer the question, just blinks a few times. And Dick can’t help it anymore; he tuts and scoops Tim off the mattress, settling him in his lap and wrapping him in the blanket and his arms. He nuzzles a kiss into Tim’s pale cheek, says again, “Hello.”   
  
Tim struggles weakly against his hold. “Dick–”   
  
“Relax, handsome, I got you,” Dick tells him, gentle and soothing, gives him a fond squeeze.  
  
“No, it's…” his voice is hoarse, vanishing entirely in places. “So hot.”   
  
“I came in to check on you,” Dick says, resting his chin on Tim’s shoulder. “Still not doing well, huh?”  
  
Tim is getting increasingly frustrated, is still struggling faintly. His voice is soft, difficult to make out. “Nngh, can’t breathe…”  
  
“What’s that, Tim?” Dick’s frowning gently, concerned.   
  
Tim kicks out with socked feet, shoves feebly at Dick’s arms, and generally tries to free himself from the hug. “Million… degrees,” he says, still panting for air. “Le'go.” Dick still doesn’t get it, staring at him with worry. “Too hot,” Tim says again, voice cracking. “Too hot to breathe.”   
  
Dick finally gets it, eyes going wide. “Oh, your fever’s back up. Here, lemme–” and he sets Tim back on the bed, disappearing into the bathroom for a minute. He returns with a damp cloth, which he gently runs over Tim’s face. Tim shivers and groans. He helps Tim sit up, and presses the cloth against the back of Tim’s neck, cool water trickling down the collar of his t-shirt.  
  
“Thanks,” Tim mumbles, laying down again.   
  
“That help?”  
  
“Mm,” it’s barely a sound, but its a form of agreement.   
  
Dick folds the cloth and lays it across Tim’s forehead, sits on his heels looking worried. He still looks so unsettled, eyebrows pinched together, pale with exhaustion and illness. Dick gently runs his hands through Tim’s hair, untangling where it’s matted into clumps, petting him.   
  
Tim flinches away from the hand, doesn’t open his eyes. “ _Hot_ ,” he mumbles.  
  
“I know, Timmy– you’ll feel better soon,” Dick promises, still stroking.   
  
“Nngh–” Tim swats the hand away, turns his pillow over to press his face against the cool side. “No, ’s too  _hot_ , Dick…”   
  
“Okay,” Dick says. “Do you… um. Do you want me to go?”   
  
“Yeah,” Tim mumbles, matter-of-fact, and Dick leaves.   
  
–  
  
Tim isn’t in his room when Dick tries to check in again. He tries not to worry, rationalises that Alfred and Bruce wouldn’t’ve let him wander off or do anything stupid when he’s this sick. He pauses by Damian’s closed door, thinks about asking him– but it’s probably not worth the smart remarks, and it’s not as though he’d go to Damian before he went to Dick.   
  
It only takes a few minutes of aimless wandering before he spots it– the library door is pulled to instead of completely closed. For Bruce, that’s as good as a neon-sign advertising his whereabouts.   
  
Dick pushes in the door, entering a little cautiously. “Hey B, have y–” he begins quietly, and stops. On the couch across from where Bruce sits reading is a mound of blankets. A pair of feet stick out the bottom.  
  
He can make out the faint, irregular rasp of breath.   
  
“I think he wanted some peace and quiet,” Bruce offers quietly, setting down his book. There’s a pause where they both look over at Tim. Then Bruce says, “Join me?” and it’s almost as much a question as it is an order.   
  
Dick obeys, doesn’t meet Bruce’s eye as he settles on the couch.   
  
“Dick…” Bruce starts, gentle, and Dick has the sudden, juvenile urge to run from the room because whatever comes next is not going to be fun, “I know you mean well. But Tim is not a very tactile person at the best of times, and being sick can make anyone short-tempered.” His fingers drum absently on the cover of the book in his lap, and Dick makes a controlled effort at not wincing. “While hugs and conversation usually make you feel better, you need to appreciate that that’s not necessarily the case with Tim.”   
  
“You think I’m smothering him.” Dick isn’t asking.   
  
“Not that.” Bruce ponders it, shaking his head. He continues thoughtfully, “I don’t think he’s particularly enjoying being so vulnerable. If he had his way, I imagine he would rather stay at his apartment alone.” There’s a pause while Bruce considers his next words. “He doesn’t want to be weak here.”   
  
“But that’s ridiculous!” Dick bursts, quickly quiets down at Bruce’s stare. Tim doesn’t stir. Dick continues, softer, “I just– it’s crap, you know? We never… I mean, it didn’t. It wasn’t an issue, before.”   
  
Bruce says nothing. He knows Dick well enough–  
  
“We used to be so close,” Dick continues, scrubs his eyes with his palms. “Now I just–” he stops.  _Don’t know_ , he doesn’t say.  _Left him be sick and alone in his apartment for nearly 3 days, because we apparently don’t return each other’s messages any more_ , he doesn’t say.  _Worry I might have screwed it up for good_ , he also doesn’t say.   
  
But Bruce does that freaky Bat mind-reading trick, (that Dick would think had something to do with knowing him since he was 9  _except he does it with everyone else too_ ), and he says, “You aren’t his keeper, Dick.” A smile twitches, a kind one. “And since when were you a pessimist?”   
  
Dick doesn’t answer.  
  
“Oh, and if it helps with your misplaced guilt,” he adds mildly. “It was only a day and a half.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That Tim was sick before you found him. He tried going on patrol the night after you last saw him, got approximately 3 streets away, and returned home to sleep.” He looks thoughtful. “A good decision, it would seem.” They both turn to gaze at the blanket pile that’s Tim. From where he sits, Dick can make out a tuft of black hair, and a single, pea-green sock poking out opposite ends.  
  
“He’ll be feeling better tomorrow. You two will have more fun then, I’m sure.”  
  
Dick nods, only a little less miserable, and Bruce eventually returns to his book.  
–  
  
“H-hey, Dick?”   
  
“Mmgh? What…?”  
  
Tim sounds like he’s exhausted, or that he’s been crying, or maybe a bit of both.  
  
Dick sits up quick, glancing at the clock readout; 4.07am. “Hi, Timmy,” he says sleepily, hears footsteps scuffing against the carpet, closer to the bed, can barely make out his brother’s form in the dark.  
  
“Dick, it’s too cold and I can’t stop shivering,” Tim mumbles, sounds awful, and Dick’s already moving and shuffling aside, pulling the blankets back. “C-can I–?”  
  
“Come here,” Dick says, hears the sound of a blanket hitting the floor. He pulls Tim’s too-warm body close as soon as he’s on the bed, carefully tucking him in and wrapping his arms tight.   
  
After a few minutes, Tim starts to relax slowly, the tension seeping out of his exhausted frame, and his shivers lessen. He presses a bit closer, and Dick squeezes.  
  
“How’s that?” Dick murmurs.   
  
“You’re tha best,” Tim says, voice muffled in his shoulder, and he’s at least three quarters asleep.   
  
Dick presses a light, careful kiss against the younger man’s forehead. “Love you, little brother,” he whispers, because it’s important. Tim shivers again, and it’s not entirely the fever. Dick makes a mental note to tell him more often.   
  
“You too,” Tim says, voice indistinct, and Dick feels eyelashes fluttering closed against his throat, warm breath ghosting against his collarbone.   
  
“G'night, Tim,” Dick says softly, but the boy is already asleep.   
   
-  
That’s exactly how Bruce finds them the next morning; Dick cuddled around his ailing younger brother, Tim sound asleep pressed against him. The latter wears an old hooded sweatshirt over the top of his pyjamas.  
  
Dick, without opening his eyes, says, “Jealousy is an ugly colour on you, B.”   
  
Bruce can’t hide his smile as he closes the door, but it doesn’t matter. No one is watching.   
  
  
-THE END-

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/15389204022/sleeping-it-off)


End file.
